


the midnight hour is close at hand

by Athina_Blaine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Established Relationship, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Social Anxiety, hot apple cider, oversized jackets and shirts, unplanned lake expedition, warm baths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athina_Blaine/pseuds/Athina_Blaine
Summary: “What am I even supposed to talk about?”“We’re going to a Halloween party. OnHalloween. With other people who, presumably,alsolike Halloween." Martin smiled. "You’ve already got at least one talking point baked right into the setting.”Jon chuckled, haggard. “You always make it sound so easy.”“Hey,” Martin said, touching Jon’s chin. He waited until Jon dragged his eyes back up from the pavement. “Worst comes to worst, we’re going to carve our little pumpkin, and we’re going to drink our hot apple cider, and we’re going to have a good time.”-Jon struggles. Martin tries to help.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 98
Kudos: 344





	1. Chapter 1

A sharp gust of wind sliced through Martin’s jacket and he shivered, shoulders stiff. It was only _October._ It should be _illegal_ for it to be this cold already. Jon had his hands locked on Martin’s arm in a death grip– but that might have had more to do with their destination than the weather, as his grip got tighter and tighter with each step they took.

“If you want to just take the whole arm,” Martin said, “all you need to do is ask.”

Jon startled, nearly dropping Martin's arm entirely. “S-sorry.”

“You’re okay.” With blood circulating in his arm again, Martin took the opportunity to readjust his grip on the small pumpkin they had picked out at the grocery store. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, making the distance from the bus station to the house that much more bloody annoying.

“I am …” Jon started, then breathed a nervous laugh. “I am starting to reconsider this whole venture.”

Slowly, Martin stopped; Jon, whose fingers were already starting to dig into the flesh of Martin’s bicep again, was drawn to a halt.

“Talk to me,” said Martin, and Jon sighed.

“I just don’t … _know_ anyone there. What’s the point of going to a party if you don’t _know_ anyone?”

“I’ll be there,” Martin said with a reassuring smile, but it was a wasted effort– Jon’s eyes had slid down to the payment. “It’s not like _I_ know much of anyone either.”

“That’s different. People _like_ you.”

“People like you, too.” That earned him a scoff and Martin frowned. “The point is to _meet_ people. Make friends. You were just saying the other day you wanted to know enough people to start that old person’s movie club, yeah?”

“ _A black-and-white film appreciation get together,_ yes,” Jon said, snobbish, and Martin snorted. “What am I even supposed to talk about?”

“We’re going to a Halloween party. On _Halloween_. With other people who, presumably, _also_ like Halloween." Martin smiled. "You’ve already got at least one talking point baked right into the setting.”

Jon chuckled, haggard. “You always make it sound so easy.”

“Hey,” Martin said, touching Jon’s chin. He waited until Jon dragged his eyes back up from the pavement. “Worst comes to worst, we’re going to carve our little pumpkin, and we’re going to drink our hot apple cider, and we’re going to have a good time.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment, eyes distant, before, at last, he let out a long breath, his stiff posture unwinding. Believing Martin, if only a little. “Yes. Yes, you’re right, of course. I’m just … being silly.”

“You’re fine. It’s okay to be a little nervous, you know.” Martin pressed a kiss over his chapped lips, finally coaxing out a small, albeit shaky, smile.

“I am looking forward to the cider,” Jon murmured as they continued walking down the pavement. “I’ve never understood the appeal of pumpkin carving, though. It’s so much effort and it’s just … _gross._ And it never turns out well.”

“Well, I guess it’s up to me to show you how to properly gut a pumpkin. If you toss some cinnamon in afterwards, it smells like pumpkin pie.”

“Nothing like masking the scent of a violent disembowelment to get in the Halloween spirit.”

Martin pinched his side, earning himself a giggle. “You're a sassy little man, you know that?”

"It's been brought to my attention once or twice."

They continued their light, amicable conversation, with Jon seeming to hold himself together. His back was straighter, his shoulders relaxed. But, as the house started coming into view, Jon’s fingers started tensing again. But, when they rang the doorbell, Sasha James answered, and Martin relaxed. Jon, for his part, looked as if he could have sunk to the ground in relief.

“Hello, Sasha,” said Jon.

“Where have you two _been?”_ Sasha asked, squeezing them both in a tight hug before ushering them inside.

“Sorry,” said Martin. “Got a bit held up picking out this little guy.”

“Ah, of course. You can go ahead and leave it in the living room, if you like– we’ve got a few stragglers we’re waiting on. Open bar, if you're interested.”

Saying their _thanks_ and _see you laters_ as Sasha re-joined the crowd, the two of them hung their coats on the rack before wandering further inside. Classic Halloween music was playing on some unseen speakers, the sound mingling pleasantly with the low drawl of amble conversation. Pretty decent turn-up. Martin recognised a few of the others already here, although he wasn’t on friendly enough terms to warrant a greeting.

“The decorations are good,” said Jon, eyeing the paper bats and bowl of foggy punch. His voice was even, betraying none of the nervousness from before. The hand still clutching Martin’s elbow, though, gave him away.

“Yeah,” said Martin. “We’ll have to pass our compliments onto the host. I think it's one of Sasha’s friends from the photography club.”

“I’ve met him,” said Jon, much to Martin’s surprise. “Trevor. He’s nice.”

Martin tried to hold back his pleased grin. That was good; maybe Jon could have a nice conversation with this Trevor guy later. Leading them through the crowd, Martin had just barely let himself believe that tonight would be smooth sailing, until, bursting through the doorway–

“ _Heeyyy_ , welcome to the–!” Tim paused at the sight of them, and they all froze. “Oh.”

Whatever façade Jon had managed to make cracked ever so slightly, and he subtly tucked himself closer to Martin’s side. Out of all of them, Tim recovered the fastest, his blazing smile returning.

“Sasha mentioned you guys were coming. Glad you could make it.”

“Um, yeah,” Martin said. “Glad to see you, too, Tim. It’s been a hot minute, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tim said, his smile firm. Jon was silent, eyes trained to the paper bat trail. Tim rubbed the back of his neck, before clearing his throat. “Right, well. See you for the pumpkin carving, then. Me and Sasha have got this absolutely knock-out design, you’re gonna love it.”

“We’re probably going to keep it simple–” Martin gently elbowed Jon’s side. “Jon hasn’t carved many pumpkins.”

Swallowing, Jon finally looked up. “Um, hello, Tim. Nice seeing you.”

Things got awkward again. “Yeah. Nice seeing you, Jon.”

With an awkward little wave, Tim vanished back into the ground, leaving Martin and Jon the hallway. Jon brought a hand to his face, what little confidence he had long gone. “You didn’t tell me _he_ was going to be here.”

“Sasha’s here, of course Tim’s going to be here, too,” Martin tried, before giving up with a sigh. “I didn’t even think of it, honestly. But, look, I know what you think, but he clearly doesn’t have any hard feelings, yeah? Just try not to worry about it.”

Jon groaned, looking as if he wanted to meld into the dark little corner of the hallway and stay there for the rest of the night, and Martin’s heart squeezed with sympathy. He took hold of one of Jon’s hands, pulling it away from his face, and smiled gently. “Come on, let’s go sit down, my feet are killing me. Get some snacks while we're at it."

Jon let himself be led into the living room, barely able to bully his face into the calm, neutral expression he wore just a few moments ago. There was already a sizable crowd gathered there, but they were able to secure a spot on the couch.

“I’ll grab something from the snack bar,” said Martin. “What would you like?”

“Cider,” Jon said, quickly. “Please.”

Ah, as if it even needed saying. He smiled, and then deposited the pumpkin into Jon’s lap. “You take care of him now, you hear?”

Jon arched a brow. “Pumpkin vines that bear fruit are female, but if we’re already committing to the absurd act of assigning gender to an inanimate object …”

Martin rolled his eyes and kissed the smirk off of Jon’s mouth. At least the man was feeling well enough for his usual snark. He then mad his way across the house, going to the bar first and flagging down the bartender. “Two cups of hot cider, please.”

She winced. “We’re waiting till the carving before we start passing out the cider.”

“What? Why?”

“Our drinks guy messed up the order, so it’s a bit limited. Sorry.”

Oh, _come on_. Who doesn’t stock enough _apple cider_ for a _Halloween_ party? Shaking his head, Martin instead turned to the snack table– they were just going to have to wait a little bit longer. At least, in the meantime, they could tide themselves over with a slice of a cake shaped like a happy little ghost. The eye looked like it was made out of cookies– Jon was definitely going to want some of that.

He was halfway through carving the second slice for himself when another person approached the table. Martin glanced reflexively out of the corner of his eyes, and then nearly dropped the knife.

“Georgie?”

Georgie looked up at him, and her expression reflected his own dawning horror. “Oh. Hey, Martin. How’s, uh … how’s it going?”

“G-good.” Martin stood there awkwardly with his cake slices. If _Georgie_ were here, then that must mean … “Um. I didn’t know you and Melanie would be here.”

“Fancy that,” Georgia said with a weak chuckle. “I didn’t know you and Jon would be here.”

They both grimaced and the silence was thick enough to choke on. Too desperate for niceties, he turned back towards the living room. “Well, I hope you guys have a nice time tonight!”

Georgie, at least, looked relieved. “Yeah, you too.”

When Martin entered the living room again, he could have groaned. The circle of people had gotten a bit bigger, with a relaxed, smiling Melanie having joined in, currently leading the conversation. On the outskirts of the circle was Jon, looking very much like he was sucking on something intolerably sour. Skirting the edge of the circle, he held out the cake slice. Jon stared at the plate, brow furrowed in confusion.

“No cider?”

“Sorry. They said they’re going to serve it later.”

Jon groaned, lowering his head. “Melanie’s here.”

“Saw that,” said Martin with a wince. “Promise you won’t pick a fight?”

“ _She’s_ the one that _insists_ on escalation–”

“Jon.”

Grumbling, Jon crossed his arms and looked away, which Martin gracefully interpreted as a concession. “Georgie’s here, too,” Martin added with a wince.

Jon groaned again, curling until his forehead pressed into the pumpkin. “I am … beginning to think there might be some otherworldly force conspiring against me here.” With a slow sigh, he straightened up, accepting the cake and slicing off a piece. “Thank you.”

Smiling, Martin took his seat. “Of course.”

They nibbled on their food, Martin’s attention half on the conversation and half on Jon. The circle was starting to grow wider as everyone filtered into the living room– Georgie appeared not long after, passing a drink to Melanie, who accepted it with a smile. Jon’s shoulders hunched ever so slightly, making himself smaller.

Occasionally, people walked up to them and made polite conversation, which Martin engaged with and Jon made a bracing attempt, but more often than not falling back into monosyllabic answers. That was, until, a man Martin only vaguely recognised approached them.

“Hey there, I’m Trevor,” the man said, shaking Martin’s hand. Host Trevor? “Hope you’re having a good time. You’re Sasha’s friends, right?”

“That’s us,” said Martin while Jon made a stiff nod. “You have a lovely home– Jon and I were just talking about how nice your decorations are.”

“Oh god, thank you so much for saying that,” said Trevor, shoulders sagging. “We spent _hours_ cutting up those little bastard bats. But, hey, tis the season– you have to go all out for the best holiday, right?”

Jon made a soft noise of agreement, drawing Trevor’s attention. His brows crinkled, before his eyes brightened.

“Hey, I think know you. You're the guy that helped Sasha with our presentation on early American film history a few months ago, right?”

“Oh, uh,” Jon straightened, looking terribly lost. “Y-yes, I suppose that was me.”

“The guys in multimedia loved it. I can’t believe Sasha never introduced us!”

“She, uh, I imagine she's been very busy lately."

Martin perked up. “You know, Jon is looking to start a black and white film club.” That earned a panicked glance from Jon, but Trevor lifted a brow, leaning forward.

“Yeah, that sounds pretty cool. I’m not much of a movie buff but go ahead and keep me in the loop, okay? I'll find you on Facebook later."

Slowly, Jon nodded, and Trevor clapped his hands together.

“Alright, I’m gonna start rounding everyone up for the carving. See you guys after.”

“Thanks for dropping by,” Martin said as Trevor left, threading himself back into the crowd. He turned back to Jon, letting a smile overtake his face. Jon rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide a small, pleased smile himself.

At the front of the room, Trevor was waving his hands. “Alright, everybody, we’re going to take the party outside now! We’ve got a fire pit going but grab your jackets anyway, it’s a bit chilly.”

Following Trevor’s directions, the party shuffled their way outside, taking their seats in the blanketed grass. Though the chill was still very much present, they had found a seat close enough to the fire that it was actually quite nice. Even Jon, with his too-thin spring jacket, looked comfortable. Someone handed out their carving tools, and Martin had just drove his knife into the back of the pumpkin–

“Go on, guess how many people have died there since 1994.”

It was Melanie and company, set up not too far from their own spot. Georgie was holding a piece of tracing paper with a spooky black cat on it. Oh, that’s a _way_ better design than what Martin and Jon had planned– they were just going to make a goofy Jack-o-Lantern face.

“ _Don’t_ , you’re freaking me out!” said one girl, pulling Martin out of his musings. “My parents take their boat on that lake all the time!”

“50,” guessed another, and Melanie shook her head.

“160,” she said, earning a murmur of astonishment and one low whistle. “That’s about 5 drownings or missing persons reports _per year_. It’s one of the most haunted lakes in the UK.”

“Well, you know why that is, right?” Jon asked, sudden. The crowd turned to the both of them, Melanie’s eyebrows lifting, and Martin tensed.

“It’s bad construction,” Jon continued. “The lake was originally made for floodwaters and conservation, not recreation. So, the waters are murky and the bottom is mostly vines and tree roots– that's why so many people drown. I wouldn't go so far as to call it haunted.”

“Right. Thanks,” said Melanie, eyes glazed, and Martin could have brought a hand to his head. “I _do_ tend to put in a little research into the sites my crew and I visit, but, yes. Thank you.”

“Oh. I didn’t …” A touch of heat crawled onto Jon's face, and he cleared his throat. “But … but then why waste your time going there when you already have such a banal explanation?”

“Look, you know what my channel is about by now, so just, you know,” she shrugged, turning back to the others, “forget about it.”

There was a muttering through the crowd as the conversation picked back up, some of them side eyeing Jon distastefully, and Jon's flush deepened.

“I …” he murmured. “I feel like I've made a misstep."

“You didn't–” Martin started, then sighed. “You shouldn't worry about it. You know how the both of you get, yeah? Now, come on, they’re going to start serving the cider soon."

“But I was just sharing a fact,” Jon said, fidgeting with the paring knife. “If she didn’t insist on being fanciful, she wouldn’t have to keep wasting her own time like this.”

Martin let out a long breath, because how should he explain it? Because Jon _was_ just sharing a fact, something that interested him, and voicing his concerns in his own Jon-way. But, sometimes … that Jon-way had a tendency to–

“I’m sorry, do you want to run that by me again, Sims?”

Martin cringed– Melanie was staring right at them, looking entirely out of patience. Jon huffed through his nose.

“I just don’t understand why you put in all this effort and energy following up these _sightings_ –” he said with finger quotes “–and hamming it up for 12-year-olds on the internet when you could be going through the _proper_ channels and act like a _proper_ scholar. Why not put your talents and intellect into something more productive?”

 _“Jon,”_ Martin whispered, frantic, but Melanie’s eyes were darkening with anger. She took a long, slow breath, fighting to keep her shoulders relaxed.

“Look, Jon, I know you and I don’t really see eye to eye on a lot of things, but there’s just a point where you have to leave the _books_ behind, you know?” For a moment, the anger broke a bit, and a gentle sparkle lit her eyes. “That’s what makes it so exciting because you just never know. There’s always the chance of discovering something _new,_ in the _field–”_

“You really think you and your YouTube crew are going to find and prove something no one’s _ever_ been able to?”

Martin winced, and Melanie cooled.

“Oh, give it a rest, King,” said Tim from across the way, sipping from a can of beer. “You’re never gonna get through to him. One time, all of us went on a haunted house tour in Winchester and he got into a spat with the tour guide because her 'deductions were flawed'. Nearly made the poor thing cry.”

“ _Tim_ ,” Martin hissed at the same time Sasha smacked his arm, earning a baffled look from Tim, but it was too late. The crowd twittered around them, some laughing, and Jon's face was dark with humiliation.

“See, this is why you can’t do stuff like me and my crew, Sims,” said Melanie. “You’ve got no imagination. Or a sense of adventure, at that. You _never_ just let go and have a little fun.”

“I …” Jon swallowed. “I do fun things.”

“I bet your boyfriend had to drag you here tonight, didn’t he?”

Jon bristled, nerve-struck, and Martin held out a hand. “Guys, _please–”_

 _“Anyone_ with a camera can prance about some lake and call themselves a ghost hunter,” Jon snapped. “It doesn’t make you nearly as interesting as you think it does.”

“Are you kidding? Do you have _any_ idea how much time and effort we put into filming and editing? Not to mention needing to have a _drop_ of charisma.” She turned to Martin. “How do you put _up_ with him?”

Jon flinched as if he’d been hit _._

 _"Hey_ ," Martin snapped at Melanie, because that had _clearly_ been _too far–_

“Is everything alright over here?”

The crowd all looked up at once to Trevor, who had entered the folds with a concerned expression. A flash of realisation lit Jon's eyes, as if he'd suddenly remembered where he was.

Georgie reached for Melanie’s arm. “Melanie–”

“What? _He_ started it! He _always_ starts it!” She surged towards Jon. “Why don’t _you_ go to the lake and film an episode, if it’s _so easy?_ Do something cool and exciting for _once_ instead of acting like a smarmy arshehole.”

All eyes were on Jon, including a bewildered Trevor. Jon, stiff with panic, shot his eyes towards Martin, and Martin shook his head. They could still fix this if they just–

“Look, I don’t know you guys or your history,” said Trevor, holding out his hands. “But if it’s going to be a problem, I would really appreciate it if you took it somewhere else.”

The crowd erupted in muttering, and Jon’s face only grew more, impossibly flushed. Martin was entirely unprepared, then, when he dropped their little pumpkin, got to his feet, and stormed back into the house.

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin said, lurching to his feet.

“ _Melanie–_ ” Sasha hissed, and Melanie’s eyes were indignant.

“I didn’t think he’d actually _go–_ ”

Martin closed his eyes as the sounds of an argument started swelling up. He took off after Jon, pausing for one moment as he reached the baffled Trevor. He opened his mouth, but, God, what did he even say? _Hope we’ll still see you at movie club!_

“Sorry,” he managed finally, and Trevor, at least, didn’t seem angry; only confused. Martin hurried into the house– Jon was halfway down the pavement by the time Martin made it outside.

“ _Jon_ ,” he called, rushing to catch up. He clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder. “You don't need to leave. I _promise_ it's not that bad.”

Jon’s lips thinned, and Martin knew he hadn’t been believed even before Jon shook him off and continued marching down the pavement, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

“Where are you going?” Martin asked, answered with silence. He hissed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re not _actually_ going to the goddamn lake, are you?”

“You’re _welcome_ to stay behind,” Jon snapped, shoulders tight and defensive, and Martin dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

 _Forget it_. Martin wasn’t about to try reasoning with Jon when he got like this. Maybe in a few hours, after he’d calmed down, but _certainly_ not now. Hell, he was half-tempted to take Jon up on his offer; go back to the party, apologise on his behalf, maybe, oh, I don’t know– _have a good time?_

But it was a temptation based entirely on spite. Of _course,_ he wasn’t about to let Jon go to the _bloody_ lake alone; with his luck, the man would fall in and drown. Would it _kill_ Jon to take these sorts of things into consideration, though? Take _Martin_ into consideration?

So, Martin fell into Jon’s pace, tucking his hands into his pocket. Jon said nothing, and together they made their way down the pavement in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

“And here we’ve arrived at the ever mysterious and _quite_ spooky Lake Ulriche,” said Jon, phone levied to the murky waters in question. 

Behind him, Martin indulged himself with a lengthy, exasperated eye roll. "Jon, please."

“One _might_ be tempted to take in its perilous construction and tasteful amount of mists and be led to the conclusion that the shores are haunted. But that would rely on one being a _delusional twit.”_

“I think you’ve made your point.”

“Oh, but Martin, any viewer of the _Fanciful Young Adult Film Crew Trespasses on Private Property_ knows that episodes average 20 minutes,” Jon glanced at him from over his shoulder, “taking advertisements into consideration, of course.”

“For the love of– you don’t even have enough room on your phone!”

“Hmm, quite right. Then I suppose I’ll just have to reuse the same panning shot of the lake several times. You know, for _padding.”_ Jon walked further down the shore, his shoes squelching in the mud. “Oh, and, of course, play a reel of spooky images and stringent music every time I make a _shocking_ discovery.”

Martin groaned, wrapping his arms around himself– _Christ,_ it was cold. Even with his sturdy woolly coat, the chill cut right through him. Which meant Jon, in his thin, cotton-wrap of a jacket, must have been _freezing._ But the man seemed to be ignoring it as he stepped over debris and crawled over a damp, mossy log. The warming power of sheer spite, perhaps.

“It is with great regret that I inform the viewer I’ve failed to bring the proper blinky-blinky ghost hunting equipment.” Jon’s leg nearly slipped out on the rotten wood, and Martin’s chest briefly seized up. Jon pressed forward, though, oblivious. “But don’t worry, I’ve brought a nice set of shiny, jingling keys to use as a substitute.”

“Jon.”

“They say a grey lady haunts these waters, pulling reckless lake-goers into the depths.” Climbing atop another log, Jon veered closer to the shoreline’s dropoff, and Martin was going to have a _bloody_ _panic attack_ – “But I’m sure we can coax her out by clapping our hands three times and singing _ba-ba-black sheep,_ ghosts are so _easily entertained,_ aren’t they–?”

_“Jon!”_

“For God’s sake, _what?”_

“You’re about to walk right into the _bloody lake,_ you nit-wit!”

Jon tensed. Underneath his feet was the rotten log, yes, and underneath that was a drop straight into the dark, fathomless waters. With a mad jerk, he scrambled back, and Martin reflexively threw his hands out, but Jon managed to return to the safe, muddy shoal.

“Are you happy now?" Martin asked, weary and sad.

Jon whirled around, eyes wide and breathing heavily. Whatever anger he had seemed to have been shocked right out of him. His lips thinned, and he looked away, sheepishly glancing down at his phone. Without a word, he plopped himself down on the log, turned on his screen, and hit play.

Martin hung back, watching the shadows of the blue light flicker across Jon’s face. The mist around them was beginning to thicken, and making him appear rather translucent and ghostly. From the phone’s speakers, Jon’s tinny voice rang out into the cold, empty space; judging by the way Jon’s lips twisted, he wasn’t overly pleased with the production quality. He curled his legs against his chest, one arm wrapped around his middle– his shoulders shook with the creeping chill. 

It was the most miserable Martin had ever seen the man, and, despite everything, his heart broke for him.

Sliding his coat off his jacket, he walked forward, dropping it down onto Jon’s shoulders. Jon yelped, looking up. Martin arched a brow, daring a _Martin-please-that's-entirely-unnecessary-I'm-fine_ speech, but Jon only stared, lips parted with dazed surprise.

Their eyes held each other there, before, at last, Jon swallowed, and turned to stare down hard at the now dark screen of his phone– but all it held was a reflection of Jon’s own tired face.

Martin sank down next to him on that gross, damp log, and let out a slow breath. “What’s this all about, Jon?”

Jon didn’t answer right away, which was fine. He wasn’t shivering as much, at least, which made Martin happy. There was still a distance between them on that log, though. A distance that only seemed larger when Jon sighed, his body sagging with a bone-deep exhaustion.

“Do you ever feel like you’re …” 

Martin waited. The air was freezing, and the log dug painfully into his backside, but Martin was always willing to wait. 

“Do you ever feel like there’s something about you that makes you …" Jon struggled, and then, at last, “... like there’s some … intrinsic reason … as to why you’re so …” He swallowed. “... why nobody likes you?”

Martin’s mouth snapped open, ready to offer comfort, an immediate reassurance, then, slowly, closed it again. Took the time to _listen._ “I mean … me _personally?_ I … I don’t think so.” His voice softened. “Is that how you feel about yourself?”

“Based on the _context,_ yes, one _could_ be led to believe the question might be in regards to myself.”

There he goes again, trying to pick a fight. Instead of rising to the bait, though, Martin reached out a hand, hesitant, before gently resting it on Jon’s back. “Sasha was there at that party, too, you know. And you and Trevor were hitting it off.”

Jon breathed a deprecating laugh through his nose. “I’m sure he’s since been dissuaded of that notion.”

“Well, maybe, but probably more so because you chose to storm out of his party like a twat. But before that you two were getting along great, because people _do_ like you, Jon. I wish you would believe that.” Martin squeezed his shoulder. “ _I_ like you, if you need the reminder.”

Jon scoffed. “Can you really say that in this very instant? With complete honesty? After I …” With a sigh, Jon dropped his phone in his lap, pressing his forehead against his knees. “Did you … At the house, did you not stop me because you knew I wouldn’t listen to you …?”

Martin pressed his lips together, and Jon smiled at him, and it was Martin’s least favourite Jon-smiles. The one where he knew Jon was thinking incredibly unkind things towards himself. “How _do_ you put up with me, really?”

“Hey, no, Melanie should _never_ have said that. That was absolutely over the line, okay?” Martin ran his other hand through his hair, before deflating with a weary breath. “I mean, yes, I’m _frustrated_ with you. Positively cross, in fact. But I still _like_ you, of course. Very much, actually. You _know_ that, right?”

Jon closed his eyes. “I know.”

Slowly, Martin started to rub small circles into Jon’s back, until, gradually, Jon’s shoulders lost their tension, until Jon looked as if he could be asleep. Martin had a sudden urge to bundle Jon in his arms and walk home, put him to bed properly, probably with several large blankets. Let time move forward and leave this disastrous night in the past.

“Why am I like this?” Jon asked, sudden, rousing a blinking Martin from his daze.

“Like what?”

“I don’t really have to say it, do I?”

That made Martin pause. “I … don't know. It might help, at least. You know, putting everything into words.”

With a frustrated noise, Jon wrapped his arms around his legs. “I _know_ Melanie and I don’t get along and it’s better to just ignore each other. I _know_ I have a tendency to lash out and act impulsively when I’m angry, or frightened, and that I should _listen_ to you when I get like that. I _know_ all that, logically. But I just … I keep doing and saying these stupid things, over and over, and I just keep _embarrassing_ the both of us.”

“I’m not embarrassed by you, Jon.”

“You _should_ be, I’m a _mess–_ ”

 _“No,_ I shouldn’t,” Martin said, heated, and then he sighed. “Please, Jon. You know it hurts me when you put yourself down like that. I’m not embarrassed by you. I never was.”

Jon didn’t look quite like he believed him, but also wasn’t willing to put up an argument, which was, at least, some progress from conversations like this in the past. Instead, Jon pulled Martin's coat tighter around himself, looking impossibly small in its size. Gently, with the hand still on Jon's shoulder, Martin tugged at him, until he could rest his head on the cushion of Martin's side.

“Thank you, by the way,” Jon murmured. “For the jacket. And … being here. With me.” He chuckled. “I didn’t even stay for the blasted cider …”

Martin snorted. That blasted apple cider … and their poor little pumpkin …

They sat there for a moment, breathing in the night. Breathing in each other. The silence stretched.

“Want to know what I think?” Martin asked.

“Yes?”

“I think … I think that you have a little trouble presenting yourself sometimes. And that you have a bit of a bad temper. And a smart mouth. And you’re impulsive and you get yourself into trouble all the time–”

“You know, I think I’m starting to feel better,” Jon said, deadpanned, earning a gentle shush.

“Jon, those are just …” he trailed off. What could he say that could get through to him? He had a vague idea, but … “Do you … do you remember when we first started dating?”

Slowly, Jon nodded and Martin swallowed.

“I was so, _so_ happy and excited. I was utterly _mad_ about you. But I wasn’t … I wasn’t in the best place …”

“Your mum,” Jon said, soft as anything, and Martin swallowed.

“Yeah. And … remember when I’d want us to go to the movies together, or the pub with some other classmates? But you didn’t always have the energy for it, or just wanted to be alone for the night. And I _knew_ that's what you needed and it wasn't about me at all, but …"

He trailed off, and Jon let him. Patiently waiting. Martin took in a deep breath.

"A part of me still always took it personally, when you said no. I felt hurt, and … sometimes I’d try to hurt you back, like that would make you understand how I was feeling or something.” His mind recoiled in shame at the memories. “And then we got into that huge fight.”

Jon sank deeper into Martin’s shoulder. “… I remember.”

“And do you remember what happened after that?”

"Hmm?"

“I apologised. And I promised that I was going to try and do better.” 

Silence. Martin rested his cheek on the top of Jon’s head. 

“I went to the school counsellor to talk about … you know. About Mum. Sasha and Tim would lend an ear sometimes. And I would _tell_ myself that you cared about me, remind myself over and over. And I'd tell myself that clinging to you so hard isn't good for either of us. And you know I still get like that sometimes, but it’s … you know,” he shrugged, “I’m not as bad anymore. I don’t think.”

“You’re perfect,” Jon whispered into the folds of Martin’s jumper, and Martin snorted.

“I’m _really_ not.” He pressed his lips against the side of Jon's head, voice low. “All of that stuff I said, Jon? It’s just … things you have to try to work on in the future. You’re not … _intrinsically insufferable,_ or whatever it was you said _._ Not even close.” He smiled into Jon's soft hair. “I think you’re quite a catch, to be honest.”

Jon’s lips curled, sardonic. “I don’t think I used the word insufferable, specifically.”

“Oh.” Martin’s face warmed. “Sorry. I mean, I'm saying a bunch of other nice things here, too, you know …”

An unimpressed snort, and Martin laughed.

“You’re … a little insufferable. Just a teensy bit.” With gentle fingers, he weaved through the curls of Jon’s hair, rubbing his thumb in slow circles just under his ear. “But you’re also intelligent and funny and passionate, and you always try to do right by other people. Even when it’s a pain in the arse.” He dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “You’re not perfect, Jon. But nobody is.”

Jon hummed, the conversation finally trailing off, and they both sat there, with Martin’s arm still wrapped across Jon’s shoulders. Jon’s eyes were closed– and Martin wanted to do nothing more than go home and curl up in bed together, and go to sleep.

Suddenly, Jon let out a haggard sigh. “I need to apologise to Melanie, don’t I? And Trevor …”

“At some point, yes. Melanie owes you an apology, too, though. In case you were trying to put all the blame on yourself again.” Martin stretched, throwing his hands up. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’m freezing my nips off.”

“ _Martin_ ,” Jon said scornfully.

“What?”

“I … you just …” Jon’s face heated. “You usually aren’t so … crude.”

“Well, yeah. I’m not usually freezing my nips off.”

“I …” Jon broke off in a snort, rising from the log. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Together, they made their way back down the shore, stepping over various debris and rubbish. The mist had grown even thicker– it _was_ only October, right? Unless Martin was getting his months wrong. He could barely see his own feet as he climbed over the large, rotten log, Jon carefully clambering after him.

Suddenly, from atop the log, Jon let out a pained whine, shuddering. _“God,_ your hands are _freezing.”_

“What?” Martin looked up. “I’m not touching you, I’m down here.”

“What? You–” Their eyes met, and Martin could just barely make out his expression in the mist– his eyes were wide with surprise and then, slowly, filling with something else. Something that looked almost fearful. 

Slowly, Jon reached his fingers to the back of his own neck, and the colour of his face drained.

“Jon?”

With a strangled cry, Jon lurched forward. _“Martin–”_

With a horrid snap, the log cracked underneath Jon’s feet and, before Jon could utter a noise, he was gone, plunging straight into the lake. 

_“Jon!”_

The lake rippled violently, but Martin couldn’t make out Jon at all, the silence deathly and absolute. How could Jon have sunken so _deeply_ this close to the shore? Images of Jon’s comments of the lake, of swimmers being dragged under by roots and vines, poured through his mind until he thought his heart might burst from it. _Jon!_

Just as suddenly as he vanished, though, Jon broke back through the surface, spluttering wildly. Grabbing the soaked folds of his jacket, Martin yanked Jon back to the shoreline with a strength he didn’t know he was capable of.

“Jesus _fucking–_ are you alright? Jon? _Jon?”_

“S-something grabbed me,” Jon managed, eyes wide and face gaunt. Combined with his drenched hair, and Martin’s oversized jacket, he looked not unlike a frightened, drowned rat. “Something g-g-grabbed my leg and pulled me under.”

Martin’s eyes scanned the lake shores, but even though the mist had lightened, just a touch, he could make out nothing on the surface or in the water. Jon shook terribly under his hands– right now, it was more important getting him dry and warm again than hunting down whatever was out there. Much as Martin was tempted to try.

“Come on,” he said, bundling the violently shivering Jon in his arms. “Let’s get you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: It's spoiling Jonathan Sims hours, y'all.


	3. Chapter 3

“But, yeah, everything’s alright now.” Martin tucked his phone between his shoulder and cheek as he reached into the hallway closet. “Driver was a saint, I’d honestly thought he’d laugh us right off the bus.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have worried about it,” said Georgie from the receiver. “Poor bastards are seeing worse things at 11 o’clock on Halloween night.” 

A memory from last Halloween came to him, when he was walking out of the grocery store and a witch and some princess character were drunkenly brawling in the middle of the road, and he chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose that’s a good point.” 

Georgie let out a long sigh. “So … Jon’s doing okay, then?” 

“Yeah, he’s warming up in the bath right now.” Martin grabbed a folded towel and closed the door with his hip, taking hold of the phone again. “Absolutely exhausted, was shivering the whole way up. I don’t know if he’s up for a phone call, if you were meaning to …” 

“No, no, that’s fine, I only wanted to, you know, check in. I just … I just can’t _believe_ he fell in the bloody lake.” 

“Yeah, well, he would, wouldn’t he? He _begged_ me to tell you it definitely wasn’t a ghost, though.”

 _“Was_ it a ghost?” 

“Would you even believe me if I said yes?” 

“Ah, well …” Georgie hummed. “Fair enough. Melanie would be _so_ cross.” There was a pause, and a long, haggard sigh. “She … apologises, by the way. About tonight. She … _really_ didn’t mean to run Jon off like that. It all kind of spiraled.” 

“I know,” Martin said with a sigh. “You and I both know how those two get.”

It was a well enough excuse, one Martin himself had used plenty of times tonight, but with a twist of frustration, he … suddenly found himself unsatisfied with it.

“She … I _really_ wish she hadn't said the things she did, though," Martin said. "About our relationship and everything.” 

“Yeah … I know." A frustrated noise. "But, I mean, if Jon would just … I wish he'd stop acting like Melanie’s show was a waste of time. As if there’s only _one_ right way to investigate the paranormal–”

“Well, maybe if Melanie didn’t interpret every little thing he says as some kind of _personal attack–”_

 _“I know_ , I know.” Georgie let out a slow drag of a sigh. “She feels bad, is what I’m trying to say. We all do. We … we were really worried about him.” 

Martin sighed. Not like pushing Georgie, of all people, was going to make any of them feel better. “Thanks. Thank you, really. I’ll let him know. He also, um, wants to apologise. You know, next chance we get.” He bit back a chuckle. “You ever think that the two of them would actually make a good team if they gave it, like … _two_ seconds of consideration?” 

“Ugh, God, _constantly,_ those daft twits, _”_ said Georgie. “But yeah, let’s … maybe we could get coffee sometime?” A verbal wince. “You know … show there’s no hard feelings?”

Oh, that sounded _awful_ , in fact. A double date, with Jon’s ex, in the spirit of getting out awkward, bracing apologies? At least Georgie sounded as reluctant as he felt. It … _would_ probably be helpful, though. “I’ll see how Jon feels. Later, though. He’s wiped out.” 

“Yeah, ‘course. Happy Halloween, Martin.” 

“Happy Halloween.” 

Hanging up, Martin grabbed the towel and pyjama top. He rounded past the laundry room first, but the dryer still had a few minutes left of its cycle; should finish up just as he needed it. He then returned to the bathroom, rapping the door frame with his knuckles.

“Special delivery.”

Head resting on the side of the tub, Jon slowly dragged his eyelids open. The man could barely even manage an acknowledging grunt. It seemed to need so much effort that it made _Martin_ tired just looking at him.

Placing the clothes on the vanity, Martin lowered himself next to the tub. “Georgie and the others checked in. Wanted you to know they were all worried about you.”

Jon groaned, eyes sliding shut again. _“Please_ say you didn’t tell them about the ghost?” 

“Hmm? A ghost?” Martin grinned coyly. “I distinctly recall you saying that there absolutely _wasn’t_ a ghost–”

“That’s because there _wasn’t._ The log was … _clearly_ unstable–” 

“Right. _Definitely_ wasn’t a lake spirit trying to give you a good holiday spook.”

Jon grumbled something or other, unable to utter anything intelligible; likely used up whatever energy he had left. Ah, the poor dear.

“You missed a spot, by the way,” said Martin, cupping his hand in the water and carding his fingers through Jon's hair. Jon didn’t even open his eyes, but sank impossibly deeper into the porcelain, nearly slipping back down into the hot, soapy water. It was so incredibly rare Martin got to see Jon this relaxed– the sheer indulgence of it all nearly made his heart stop. 

“Got a towel and some pyjamas for you. Whenever you’re ready. It’ll be a little big,” he added, apologetic. “You really need to start bringing some clothes over, you know."

“You …" Jon managed to peek open one eyelid. “If … if that’s something you want, of course.” 

“Course it is. You're here often enough anyway.” He dropped a kiss on the bridge of Jon’s nose. “Take your time. I think I’ll make us some hot drinks.” 

“Sounds nice.” Jon’s eyes closed once more, and Martin was legitimately starting to worry that Jon would fall asleep in that tub. He’d prune, at that rate.

In the kitchen, Martin flipped on the kettle, ears perking at the sounds of sloshing water. He was halfway through diffusing the cinnamon when Jon shambled into the kitchen, toweling his hair dry. Martin’s old shirt hung off him like a scarecrow wearing flannel, and when Jon straightened, wet hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep, Martin really thought he himself would melt right onto the kitchen floor.

“What?” Jon asked, suspicious, and Martin shook his head.

“Nothing. Go ahead and get comfortable.” He winked. “I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

Jon considered him for a good moment, askance and skeptical (because his Jon was _never_ too tired to be skeptical), but, regardless, did as told. As Jon lay down on the couch, breathing out a long, easing sigh, Martin went to the dryer, pulling out his old, fluffy blanket; the fleece orange one with the little bats. 

Blanket tucked under one arm, he scooped up their mugs and made his way over to the couch.

“Here you are,” he said, sliding a mug into Jon’s hands. It wafted a gentle steam and Jon inhaled deeply. His eyebrows snapped up.

“Is this apple cider?” 

Martin huffed. “Oh, like you’re actually surprised. Unlike _some_ people, _I_ know to have a proper stash of cider ready for Halloween.” 

Jon snorted so hard the liquid nearly sloshed out of the cup. Martin unfolded the blanket, wrapping it around Jon’s bony shoulders. 

“And one appropriately themed blanket,” he said. "I threw it in the dryer for a bit so it’s all nice and toasty.” 

Jon didn’t say anything as Martin futzed with the blanket, making sure it was well and secure. When their eyes met again, though, Martin tensed with surprise. Jon’s eyes were wide, a little bit hazy, staring at Martin in a daze.

Then, Jon blinked, and his lips twisted up.

“You …" he started and then chuckled, reaching up a hand to scrub at his eyes which were, alarmingly, starting to mist.

“Jon?” said Martin, crouching down with concern. Jon chuckled, and it was wet.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m fine, I’m just … _very_ tired right now.” At last, he looked up, and though his eyes were a touch red, he was smiling softly. “I … feel like the old me would say something about how … how I don’t deserve you, or something of that particular ilk.”

Ah. 

Smiling, Martin ran a hand down Jon’s arm. “And what would you say now?” 

Jon gently bumped their foreheads together. “I love you.” 

A knot twisted in Martin’s throat. He closed his eyes and let himself savour this moment. Savour Jon’s words. Savour Jon. 

He pressed his mouth over Jon’s badly chewed lips, earning a startled huff before said lips curled upwards.

"I love you, too,” Martin said; Jon's eyes were hazy, his lips shiny, making for a gorgeous sight. Now probably wasn't the time for a senseless kissing, though, much as Martin would have loved to continue. He settled down on the sofa, tucking himself in close to Jon's side. “So, how does a movie sound? Your turn to pick.” 

“Hmm.” Jon shimmied up to Martin’s side, futzing with the blanket until it was comfortably draped over the both of them. “I don’t mind. I’ll never make it to the end anyway.” 

“Good point,” said Martin, grabbing the remote. “I’m sure there’s something on.”

Jon offered no response, sipping from his mug as Martin flipped through the channels. They eventually found an old Halloween episode of some cartoon or another. They got nice and settled, Jon nuzzling into his chest, and Martin threw an arm across his shoulders, making it a good and proper cuddle.

Jon was half gone into sleep, and Martin was about feeling he could slip off himself, when, suddenly, a loud, jarring noise shattered the cosy silence, startling them both. It was Jon's phone, vibrating madly on the table.

“I can’t believe that thing still works,” Martin mumbled as Jon reached over to pick it up. Then, Jon stiffened. 

“It’s Trevor.” 

“Trevor? From the party?”

“I … sent him a message when my phone started up again. Just, you know, an apology.” He laughed nervously, brushing his hair out of his face. “Honestly, I thought he’d ignore me.” 

“What did he say?” 

Jon lifted the phone, biting his bottom lip and eyes flicking across the screen. Once. Twice. And then, at last, the tension drained out of him in a slow, relieved breath. 

Martin lifted a brow. “Good?” 

Jon handed him the phone, Jon’s initial message jumping out at him. 

_Good evening, Mr. Hunter. I wanted to express my regrets as to the manner I left your gathering earlier tonight. I had been looking forward to it and I let my own tempers get the better of me. Please accept my apologies, although I would understand if you didn’t. I have no excuse for my atrocious behavior. Have a Happy Halloween._

Martin’s lips quirked, torn between amusement at Jon’s absurd sense of formality and heartbreak at his genuine sincerity. He scrolled down to the response; 

_hey! yeah, that was all a little awkward, but thanks for reaching out to me. you seem like a cool guy so i hope we get a chance to hang out sometime for real! keep me posted on that whole movie club thing. happy halloween!_

“Looks like everything's good," he said, handing the phone back to Jon. 

“Yes, it … would appear to be that way,” said Jon, staring down at the screen with a particular sort of intrigue.

Grinning, Martin leaned over to nuzzle the side of Jon's head. “Told you you guys hit it off."

“Must we with the ‘I told you so’s?”

“Only a little.” Martin kissed his temple, and Jon huffed, but unable to completely smother his smile. He put his phone back on the table before settling back down again, curling up tightly into Martin's side. The next episode was starting.

At the other end of the room, the digital clock read 11:59 PM. Judging by Jon's slow, deep breathing, Martin figured he had drifted off again, which is why, in the quiet of the room, he was surprised by a soft,

“Happy Halloween, Martin.” 

Martin smiled, and rested his cheek on Jon's hair.

“Happy Halloween.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a big Happy Halloween to you guys, too! Thanks to [@hello-archivist](https://hello-archivist.tumblr.com/) for the inspiration! Thanks for reading, everybody!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [@athina-blaine](https://athina-blaine.tumblr.com/)!


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